


a spot at the hearth (we are breathing river water)

by natlet



Series: make it the shape of everything you need [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 00:50:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8776576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natlet/pseuds/natlet
Summary: John comes home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a [_stone house_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7721008) sequel, in which i continue to pretend this show ended with these jerks making heart eyes at each other across a campfire

*

_I can tell already you think I'm the dragon_

*

"Easy," John says, his voice low, his arms tight around James' shoulders as James shudders against his chest. "Easy, it's all right. I'm here now." 

The creak of the door opening must have taken him by surprise, was all; it's late, and he must've been long since settled down by the fire, a quilt around his shoulders and a book open across his lap - hell, he'd looked more than half asleep when John had stepped inside. It makes sense, John thinks, that James had been a bit startled - that he'd leapt from his chair, that for a moment his eyes had been wide and unfocused and terrifying, that he'd thrown himself so swiftly into John's arms. He just hadn't been expecting it. "You're fucking three weeks late," he says into John's neck, and. Well. There is also that. 

"I know," John says. "I'm sorry. The winds aren't on our side this time of year." He presses a steady kiss against James' temple, one hand gliding the length of his back, and he can feel James thinking about pulling away, thinking about fighting John's grip - only thinking, though, and it's not as if John wouldn't understand if he were to do it anyway. His letter must have arrived ages ago. "You knew I was coming back to you. I always do. Have I ever given you reason to doubt that?"

"I thought," James says, and stops; his hands clench on John's waist, his grip tight even through the damp, heavy fabric of John's coat. John can't imagine what he must have thought. What nightmarish fates must have befallen him, night after night, in James' mind while they'd been apart. 

"Well, I'm not," he says, after a moment, when it's clear James doesn't intend to continue. "Whatever you thought. I'm not." He lets his head drop to James' shoulder, breathes him in, the sharp woodsmoke scent at his collar, and below, the rich comforting heat of his skin. Christ, but John had missed him. "You know if I could have sent word, I would have," he says. 

James huffs out a breath; it isn't an answer, not quite, but taken together with the way his hands slip around John's waist, how he settles their bodies more firmly together rather than pulling away, it serves as one. He's angry, but it'll pass. John tucks him in close, kisses his shoulder, his neck, the gentle curve of his jaw. "Will you let me make it up to you?" he says, his mouth against the warm shell of James' ear, and he's not surprised - pleased, but not surprised - when James nods. 

The first kiss is slow - it always is, when they've been apart for a while. There's always a lingering hint of uncertainty, a brief awkward moment before they've truly reconnected; there's a strangeness to it, but in a way, John almost looks forward to it. In a way, it's come to mean James to him. He nudges closer, hands slipping down James' back to settle in the dip at his waist, catching James' lower lip between his own. He's stiff in John's arms, still, but John can wait. It won't be long before James sighs and softens under him, opens to him - even now he can feel the answering nudge of James' nose against his cheek, and he lets himself smile into the kiss, just to feel James return it.

"Welcome home," James says, when they part, and if it comes out sounding a bit grudging, well. John figures he probably deserves that. 

"Thank you," he says anyway, and James leans in to kiss him again, quick but firm, before pulling away. The fire is banked low in the hearth on the far side of the room, and John follows as James goes to tend it, taking the chair he'd occupied just off the warm patch of brick. He manages not to groan too loudly as he settles into it, stretches the iron leg out in front of him - it aches like it hasn't in months, but the cold certainly isn't doing him any favors, and he isn't exactly used to wearing it any more, besides. On board the ship, most days, he can allow himself the luxury of the crutch instead - but Mister Anderton at the stable in town won't let him a horse with it, and having made the journey from the harbor to James' house on foot once, he has no interest in ever doing it again - so. "Now that I've arrived, I can admit to you that I almost didn't." 

James doesn't turn, but tension ripples across his shoulders. "What happened?" 

"Governor Rogers managed to get a tail on us coming out of Norfolk," John says, carefully. In truth, it had been the same tail they'd thought they'd slipped away from just north of the Bahamas; a spot of bad timing and a few overly-friendly riggers allowed on shore unattended had proven them wrong, but he thought perhaps he might spare James the details of that particular misadventure. "I think we probably sailed halfway back to fucking England before we managed to lose him." 

Under James' prodding, the embers in the fireplace spring suddenly back to life; John watches as he adds a fresh log to the pile, swings the kettle out over the flames before turning back around. He's trying to keep it to himself - the last thing he wants is to spoil what little time they have together with his difficulties - but something of the journey must show on his face; James comes to kneel in front of him, wordless, rolls up the hem of his trousers to get at the straps of the boot. There's no hesitation in his movements, and John offers no protest. It isn't the worst thing in the world, he's discovered, to let someone else take care of him every now and then. "And that's what took you so long, is it?" James says, undoing the last of the buckles. 

"Part of it." John holds his breath, braces himself between the arms of the chair as James works the boot off; he's gentle, but no measure of gentleness can ease the sting as the end of John's leg comes free from the leather. When it's done, though, he slips his hands momentarily inside the leg of John's trousers, palms pressed against reddened but warm and healthy skin, thumbs rubbing small circles on either side of John's knee as circulation returns, and that - John can't deny that does help. He lets himself breathe out slowly, lets himself close his eyes. "The other part is I've never been able to get quite as much speed out of her as you could, but I don't suppose that would be news to you." 

"No, I don't suppose it would." John feels the air shift around him as James rises, moves away; he's back in a moment, though, his hands on John's shoulders, gathering his damp hair up off his neck. "Has the snow started?" he says. 

John frowns. "Snow?" 

He doesn't have to open his eyes to know James wants to laugh at him; he can hear it in his damned voice. "Mister DeGroot did tell you how far north we are, did he not?" 

"Yes, I've almost learned to understand the maps on my own, thank you," John says. When he tilts his head back and looks, James is smiling at him, though upside down; he reaches up, hooks a hand around the back of James' neck, pulls him in for a kiss. "Not yet," he says, when he decides to let James go, "though I assume it will soon. Poor old DeGroot was giving himself fits worrying about whether or not we'd beat the storm into port." 

"Poor old DeGroot may be the only one left on that ship wise enough to see the difficulty in approaching that harbor in a gale." 

"If only you'd chosen to retire somewhere a bit more accessible," John says; it's a bit of a blow, to be sure, landing just this side of harsh, but he can't help but feel James almost deserves it. If he wishes to pass judgement on the risks John chooses to take with his own damned ship, he can at least acknowledge they had been taken entirely for his benefit. He wants to say something; John can see it welling up in his throat, crawling around the corners of his mouth. In their other life John would have prompted, needled him, done his best to draw out whatever tantalizing secret thoughts James might be keeping back. But now, he stays quiet; some thoughts, he's learned, are best kept to one's self. That sometimes it's best to merely hold one's ground. Even with one's - whatever he is to James, now. 

James, apparently, has come independently to the same conclusion; after a moment he huffs out a breath, lets John's now chilled hair fall back against his neck as he steps away. John listens, but doesn't turn to watch as James' footsteps retreat. The winds are picking up outside, rattling the windowpanes in their heavy frames, and the house is small - there aren't many places for James to go. The second crutch he'd made for John to keep here rests where John had left it the last time, within arm's reach; John gives him a few minutes, then reaches for it, and goes after him. 

His bedroom, much like the rest of the house, is small, mostly bare; a single candle by the bedside lights the space more than sufficiently. John pauses in the doorway and watches as James, his back to John, reaches for the hem of his own shirt, pulls it over his head. The smooth motion sends shadows rippling across the muscles in his back and shoulders, his skin pale in the dim light, and John can't quite hold back a small, pleased smile. Even now, years off the account, away from that life of hardship and physical exertion, he is still so beautiful. John crosses the room slowly, taking care to let his steps and the tap of the crutch fall loudly enough for James to hear, to give him time to react, should he choose to; he doesn't, though, and when John reaches him he sets the crutch aside, steadies himself with his hands on James' waist instead. 

"I hate being on that fucking ship without you," he says against the soft skin of James' shoulder. It isn't what he'd meant to say, but it's what comes out, so. "I hate having to leave you behind." 

"Rogers is following you?" James says, and it takes John a moment to catch up. 

"Not regularly," he says, even though he's still thinking, teasing that particular thread out of the densely woven tapestry that is the progression of James' war. "He stumbled across one of our landing sites a few months ago, and got a bit lucky catching up to us." He kisses the muscle tensing at James' collar. "Please don't worry, darling. We lost him days south of here, and it was only by chance that he found us to begin with."

"You know there's a bounty on your head," James says. His hands slip to cover John's, and John winds his arms obligingly around James' waist. "On both our heads."

"Yes, and there has been for years now, are you just noticing?" He tucks his chin against James' shoulder, feels James shifting, widening his stance to support John's weight. "I promise you, England is no closer to me or to either of us than they ever have been." 

James huffs out a low scoffing breath, but John ignores it, spreads his palms flat against the gentle curve of James' stomach. He loves that, he can't help thinking, with a warm flush that has him ducking to hide his face against James' neck - he loves the parts of James that are eased and relaxed and rested, the parts of him that are softer now, here, in this new life. He'd never say it out loud - too afraid James would take it in some way other than John had meant it, that he might take it to mean John thought him weak, or worse - but god, he does love that. He presses a kiss to James' shoulder, feels James lean back against him - not much, not enough to unbalance them, but enough to register, and he tightens his hold. 

"Do you really want to talk about England right now?" John says, and James laughs, though it's more felt than heard. 

"Not particularly."

"Good," John says. "Neither do I." He breathes slow and deep into James' neck, lets his fingers stroke lazy circles on James' skin, lets his eyes slip closed; James is solid and steady and warm against him and he is so, so tired. James turns in his arms - slow, slow enough it doesn't unbalance them, that John can compensate for the change in position, brings one hand up to burrow into John's hair. His lips brush John's cheek, and John forces himself to pull back, open his eyes. "I'm sorry," he says. He doesn't mean to, but the way James is looking at him drags the words from his mouth. He doesn't deserve this. "I know this is hard on you. I wish I knew some way to make it easier." 

James is quiet. He won't ask, and John still can't quite bring himself to offer. After a moment, John smiles. It's forced, but perhaps James won't notice. Perhaps in the morning it won't be. "Am I still invited to bed?" he murmurs, and he feels James' hand run down his arm, slip into his own.


	2. inside your head the sound of glass

John wakes to an empty bed and a room far brighter than it should be. He sits up, frowning at James' pillow, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the curtains - the last time he'd been here, he thinks, sleep-dulled and bleary, the trees outside the window had leaves. They must've been what had kept the bedroom shadowed and pleasantly dim, sparing him this particular indignity. He forces himself out of bed, gets hold of the crutch, wraps one of the blankets around his shoulders - it's unbearably fucking cold, too, because of course it is, the windowpanes thick and clouded with frost - and goes to find James. 

He isn't in the main room, though it looks like he has been recently; the fire is burning steady and high around a big iron pot, and on the table there's what looks to be the remains of his breakfast, bread and a bit of cheese and some fruit. John pulls out a chair, helps himself to half a gnarled apple, and settles in to wait. 

It doesn't take long; it's only a few moments before the door blows open, letting in James and a rush of freezing air to accompany him. "Jesus," John says, half reflexive, and he turns to look as James laughs. He's bundled up well - he's wearing John's coat, a thick scarf wound tightly around his neck and across the lower half of his face, a cap pulled down over his ears. There's fresh white snow sprinkled across his shoulders and the armload of firewood he's carrying, and John frowns at him, makes sure to exaggerate it a bit more than necessary. "Tell me again why you've chosen to live in a frozen hellscape," he says. "I'm afraid I've forgotten." 

"I've found it a bit more hospitable than an island currently overrun by redcoats," James says, muffled through the scarf, "pleasant as the weather down there may be." He deposits the wood next to the fireplace, turns toward John as he finds one end of the scarf, starts to unwrap himself. "Besides, it's really quite pretty. Have you had a look outside?" 

"I fucking well haven't," John says, and he can see the smile in James' eyes, even in the half-second before he uncovers his mouth. 

"You're afraid of a bit of snow?" 

John turns, one arm slung over the back of the chair, and watches as James hangs the coat back on the hook by the door. "Not at all," he says. "But your damn windows have all frozen over. As far as I'm concerned, there may no longer even be an outside."

James snorts. "You're not funny." 

"I most certainly am," John says; then, after a breath, "You going to stop there?" James turns, one eyebrow lifting curiously; John beckons him over, reaching out once he's close enough, curling his fingers into the hem of his shirt. "Why not take this off, too?" he says, and he hears James' breath catch. 

He'd just been so tired, last night - he'd barely been able to appreciate James' hands on him, his body pressed against John's own. The pressure of his fingers around John's cock, the heat of his mouth. It still feels half-remembered, like John might have imagined it. He's been away too long. "You've just finished telling me about how cold you are," James says, soft, "and now you want me bare?" 

"I always want that," John says, low and more honest than he's expecting - he breaks it with a smile, glances up to catch the hint of amusement curling around the corners of James' mouth. James hums, like he's considering it, and John lets his hands drop, fingers tracing along James' thigh, the muscle solid and strong beneath the fabric of his trousers. "If we go back to bed, then neither of us has to be cold." 

"What, you think that I can just drop everything and stay in bed all day because you've decided to stop by?" 

"I was hoping you might, for a few hours at least, yes." He leans in to press a kiss to James' hip. "I did come an awfully long way to see you." 

"That you did," James says, and after a moment, he's reaching for the hem of the shirt himself, tugging it upward, over his head. John's got his hands back on him immediately, greedy, seeking skin, and he's more than a little pleased when James sighs, arches forward into his touch. 

"You're beautiful," he says against James' hip, the broadcloth rough under his lips, damp from the melting snow. "You know that?" 

"You're a liar," James says, but John feels a hand slip into his hair anyway, James' fingers spread against his scalp. He smooths one palm up, following the trail of coarse hair from the waistband of his trousers over his stomach. "John - " 

"Please," John whispers. He shouldn't - he knows he shouldn't; James is right, he's got a life here, he's got things to do, and none of that goes away just because John would prefer to be close to him - but. "James, please, just let me - " 

"John," James says again - his voice wavers but his hands are tight on John's shoulders, hauling him upward, and for once, John shuts up. 

*

"I've got to go into town," James says, later. His breath is warm in John's hair, the steady burr of his voice in his chest deep and solid under John's ear, and John's so busy enjoying it it takes him a moment to fully realize what James is saying. 

"What?" 

"Broke the fucking axe this morning," James says. His fingers trail through John's hair, spreading it out across his shoulders. "Shattered right in two, and we've barely got enough firewood to make it until morning. We're sure to run out, if it gets any colder. I should have brought it inside weeks ago. I'll have to go into town to replace it." John shivers, tries to press closer, feels James' hand withdraw, and then the blanket being drawn up his back, tucked in securely around his neck. "Is there anything you think you might need while I'm gone?" 

John blinks, forces his eyes open, forces himself to catch up - and fuck, he'd thought they'd already discussed this, he'd thought - he'd thought he'd known better, by now, than to trust any of that. "Well, yes," he says, and if it comes out a bit snappish - "You, to start." 

"Well, I'm sorry," James says, "but unless you've brought a spare axe head with you, you're just going to have to make do for a bit. I've got a few new books I don't think you've seen yet - " 

"James, I came here to be with you, not your books," John says. He shifts, lifting his head to look up at James carefully, unsure where this sudden sense of irritation he's picking up is coming from, unsure whether or not - "Is there - if there's some reason you don't want me along, I'd prefer you just tell me." 

"I just thought perhaps you wouldn't want to make the trip twice in as many days," James says. "You're welcome to come with me, if you'd like." 

"I would like," John says, a bit stubbornly - but James smiles, and doesn't comment, and the matter is settled.

It's a while before they rise, but when they do, they do together. James dresses quickly, and brings John his boot without being asked, then heads outside to tack up the horses. He comes back inside as John is struggling into his coat; to his credit, he doesn't interfere, waiting by the door as John sorts it out for himself - but when John gets near, he takes an extra scarf from the rack on the wall, drapes it around John's neck. "It's not going to be a pleasant ride," he says quietly, his gaze resting somewhere on John's chest as he tucks the ends of the scarf into John's already-buttoned coat. "Are you sure you don't want to stay here?" 

John laughs. "I'm sure," he says, and kisses James, quick and firm, before reaching around him to open the door. 

He isn't wrong - the winds have died down overnight but it's still blisteringly cold outside the solid walls of the little house, the sharp chill pricking at the corners of John's eyes, finding its way between the layers of his clothing almost before he's even had a chance to acknowledge its presence, and for a moment John thinks he's made a terrible mistake - but James is already waiting, the horses puffing and pawing impatiently at the ground, and John forces himself forward. They ride side by side along the tree-lined track toward the gate at the end of the property; the snow isn't deep enough to pose any challenge to the horses yet, and once he fights his way past the initial shock of the temperature, John has to admit James is right - it really is sort of pretty. There's a sparkle to it, the sun glinting off the ground and the shrouded branches of the evergreens, and John is struck by the obvious but still somehow otherworldly knowledge that for once, everything is just as fresh and new as it seems. That no one but them has ever laid eyes on this, this scene, set precisely in the way they're seeing it now. That this is something just for them. He can't exactly say he likes it - but he can't say he doesn't, either. 

Anderton's stable is the first building on the edge of town. James puts up the horses in a couple of empty stalls while John tracks down said proprietor, pays his fee for the day. They won't be anywhere near that long, but Anderton has always been perfectly accommodating, regardless of at what hour John might appear, or how tentative his plans might be; John figures it's worth a few extra pounds to ensure that continues to be the case. They continue together along the main road, toward the blacksmith's, but James pauses just outside the tavern. "It might be best for me to go alone from here," he says, a bit hesitant, but John nods. 

"I think you're right," he says. "I wouldn't want to - make things more difficult for you." Invite any questions, he means, about where he'd come from, and what his association with the quiet, unassuming Mister McGraw might be; it's one thing for them to be seen separately, he knows, and another entirely for them to be seen together. The odd physical similarity to the really sort of hilariously exaggerated drawings on the bills posted by the Crown can be explained away, but his leg can be more difficult to rationalize. He may not like it, but he's long since learned that the tales that might spread about him - about them - barely even require facts, let alone either of their consent. 

"I won't be long," James says, and pauses; for a moment John thinks he might reach out, but he doesn't, and John makes himself smile, makes himself return James' nod, steps back himself, just to make it easier for James to go. 

It's still there, when he looks for it - the set to James' shoulders, the length of his stride, and as he watches James disappear around a corner, he wonders how nobody else has noticed. The connection seems obvious to him, even now that James has trimmed his beard and grown his hair out, put on some weight, done what he could to distance his physical appearance from that of a man wanted for piracy in the Bahamas. James had made it clear to him, the first time he'd come, that he no longer considered himself to be Flint; John had not been and still wasn't convinced that it became true just by James saying it, but so far, he's managed to keep that particular doubt to himself. It's never seemed worth arguing about. 

Still, he thinks, James had managed somehow; had built a life for himself here, conjured up a new identity, divorced - at least, divorced enough - from the spectre of Captain Flint. Perhaps, with time, he could do the same. It's nothing he hasn't done before, after all, and maybe the cloak of Long John Silver had been easier to wrap himself in than any of his previous identities - but maybe it could be cast aside just as easily. He could be this, he thinks - the farmer he spots through the window of the general store, setting a lumpy sack on the counter, talking animatedly with the shopkeep. The two small boys that run past him, shouting and chucking handfuls of snow at each other, or their father, some lengths behind them, dragging a laden sledge and a private, indulgent smile. He could find a place for himself here, were it not for - well.

John turns off the main road, into an alley, lets his boot kick through snow still fresh and undisturbed. It doesn't feel right, calling it James' war, not any more; it had been in the beginning, and a part of John had thought it would always be, born from his pain, his anger, his conviction. It had made sense, at first. But now, with James nearly four years removed from it, John thinks perhaps it's time to admit it's also become his. Perhaps it's time to admit it's become only his - after all, he thinks, isn't he the one who won't let it rest? Who insists on pursuing it, on holding fast to the ideals it had sprung from, long past the point where most men would have said - had tried to say - it was time to move on. To let it rest. To admit defeat, succumb to the march of civilization that James had always been so horrified by - had succumbed to himself, in the end, though even as he's forming the thought John isn't sure how much he means it. James had fit himself into this society, had formed a working relationship with the shopkeeps and the townsfolk, the boy selling candles from a crate on the corner, the woman selling tea down the road - but if he looks, John can see an argument for James having done it on his own terms, for having succumbed only on a surface level. He may trade in English pounds, now, but he also still welcomes John into his bed at night. 

Some nights, John corrects himself, and tries to ignore the flash of guilt low in his gut. James knows his reasons. James is responsible for the majority of them. They're doing the best they can, John thinks - both of them. And just because he cannot find it in himself to walk away just yet doesn't mean he never will. It's a conversation barely worth having, even with himself - a road that leads nowhere, at least nowhere he's quite ready to tread. 

Not unlike the alley, which, beyond the edge of the buildings, ends abruptly at a fence and a mound of drifted snow. There's no way around it, at least not one that John feels comfortable navigating, and he turns around, follows his own footsteps back toward the thoroughfare. James must be nearly finished by now - perhaps he's already looking, coming back up the road from the blacksmith's, new axe successfully retrieved, and they can go home. Buoyed and perhaps a bit distracted by the thought, by the promise of their warm, close little house, the fire ready to be fed and the bed he can surely talk James into returning to, John steps out of the alley and into a confrontation already in progress. 

It takes him a long moment to fully understand what he's seeing. 

On one side of the thoroughfare, James; his stance wide and balanced and tense, his shoulders square, a spark in his eye that takes John back years, to the deck of the Walrus and a page torn from a log, a man called Singleton and the first time he'd truly understood the trembling reverent note that always seemed to underscore the name of Captain Flint. On the other, Dudley and Ogden - the stupidest of John's stupid fucking riggers, the both of them stinking drunk, arms slung around each other's shoulders. "Oi, mate, he is," Dudley says, jostling Ogden - his voice far too loud, and with enough bloated victory in the tone that even John wants to lay him out where he stands. "You're that old bastard captain who used to sail our ship, you're - " 

"Gentlemen," John says, and perhaps his own voice is a bit loud, a bit sharp, but - Christ. Christ, he thinks, please no. Not now. Ogden looks over first, then Dudley - John isn't sure James has even noticed he's here, yet. 

"Cap," Dudley says, "Me and ol' Paul here, we was just wondering - " 

"I was just wondering if I'd given you permission to leave our anchorage," John says, right over him, "and you know, I am quite certain I did not." 

Dudley blinks at him; John takes advantage of his momentary confusion to move, two quick steps putting himself between them and James, and he's not even entirely sure who he's defending against whom, here, but. "Captain," Ogden says, finding his voice, finally - "five thousand pounds, they said, you remember - " 

"Insubordination," John says. "Public drunkenness. Disturbing and harassing the peaceful, innocent townsfolk. Gross disobedience. Would you agree, gentlemen, that this is an accurate summation of your sins, as they stand?" Behind him, he can hear James breathing, loud and rough and panicked, and it takes everything he's got to stand his ground, to not react - to wear this mask here, in this moment. 

"We didn't mean no harm, Captain," Ogden tries, "we was just - " 

"You were just headed back to the ship," John says, "were you not?" They stare at him, blank and confused, and John can't help thinking of the fat milk cows he and James had seen on their way into town, chewing their cud, their dumb, placid gazes as they'd passed. "Now," he barks, and they scatter - much like the fucking cows. He holds his ground until they've disappeared around the corner, and then finally, finally, lets himself turn around.

"James." 

He's frozen in place, like none of it had happened, like John had never intervened - his muscles rigid, his gaze wild and unfocused, and John moves toward him carefully, slowly, both hands held out, palms up. "James, it's all right. They're my crew. They're not very bright, I'm sorry." James doesn't answer, won't make eye contact - John wants to touch him, needs to touch him, isn't sure if he should or not. He might have, he thinks - years ago, if he'd never allowed this distance to grow between them, if he'd stayed - he might have known what to do, then. "James," he tries again, reaching out - but James rears back, teeth bared, and John lets his hand drop again to his side, helpless. 

"You told them," James says, rough and breathless and savage - it doesn't even sound like him, and something twists low in John's stomach, sharp and terrified. "You told them." 

"James, I didn't - what are you talking about? I told you, they're just my crew. And they're a couple of fucking drunks, anyway, nobody's going to believe anything they've got to say." James is backed up against the wall, and John half thinks he shouldn't, but he steps forward anyway - maybe if he can get his hands on James, he thinks, if he can touch him, maybe he can - "I didn't tell them anything, what do you think I told them?" 

"You told them where to find me," James says - "How did they know, how - " 

"I didn't," John says, "James, I promise, I didn't tell them anything more than they needed to know. I didn't tell them anything true, they think I have a woman here, please - " Perhaps it's just that he's got nowhere left to go, but James lets John touch him, this time - John can still feel the tight jump of muscle under his hand when he lays it on James' shoulder, but James doesn't fight it, doesn't try to pull away. "As far as anyone knows you're living somewhere well south of here. Nobody's even thought to look for you up here, all right?" He squeezes James' shoulder lightly, runs his thumb over the sharp edge of his collarbone under his coat. "Look at me, will you?" he says, and James does - his gaze still cautious, guarded - but. "They're just a couple of drunks. Nobody's going to believe anything they've got to say, if they even remember it, which they won't." 

"What if they do?" 

"Then I'll handle it," John says. "We've been careful, James. I'm keeping an eye on things, I promise. You're safe here. We both are." 

James takes a breath, another, closes his eyes; John can almost see the thoughts warring in his head, the tension between the parts of him that want to believe John's right and the parts of him that feel he can't afford to, and he just - waits, stays quiet and steady and close, waits for James to look at him again and speak, his voice almost too faint to hear - "I want to go home." 

"Okay," John whispers back. He smiles at James, gentle and encouraging - if he doesn't expect it to be returned, he thinks, there's no reason to be disappointed when it's not. He lets his hand slip down James' arm, takes his hand for just a second before he pulls away. "Come on."


	3. let me make a thing of cream and stars

James rides ahead of him on the way back, which John doesn't mind - he figures it's easier for both of them, the distance between them and the winds beginning to pick up again erasing any expectation that they might talk. He dismounts quickly when they reach the house and the small barn beside it, reaches for the reins of John's horse; "I'll put them up," he says, without meeting John's eyes. "You should go inside." 

John takes his meaning well enough; he needs a moment alone, which John thinks is entirely fair. He lets himself down carefully, holding tight to the saddle until his good leg finds purchase in the snow, and cuts his own path up the steps to the door. The difference in temperature as he steps inside hits him hard enough his head spins and he takes a moment himself, one hand clutching the smooth wooden edge of the door until it passes - Christ, he wishes James had chosen to settle in Tortuga, or even somewhere around the Carolinas - he'd take the rain and the mud over this, any day. He thinks about leaving the door cracked for James, but eventually pushes it shut instead; with him, a moment can mean a moment or three hours, and there's no way of knowing which side of the fence this might fall on. The next port they make, he thinks, fucking Ogden and Dudley might be finding themselves in need of a new ship - and perhaps he shouldn't allow himself to give in to that urge, fall into the habit of crewing his ship based on personal slights, but. 

The fire is nearly out, the last of the logs James had stoked it with this morning falling apart into glowing coals when John prods it with the poker; he drags the chair closer, settles into it, pulls the three smallest logs from the pile of fresh wood nearby and stacks them carefully over the warmest patch in the ashes. He's not expecting them to take, but at least he'll be able to tell James he tried. He leans back in the chair, stretches his legs out in front of him, and closes his eyes. 

Some time later - he's not sure how much - he's woken by a ringing crack from outside, followed shortly by an uncomfortable warmth at his toes. The axe, he realizes, sitting up - and the logs have caught, are burning brightly. He's lucky he hadn't melted the toe of his boot. He leans forward to add another log to the fire, then stays there, elbow on his good knee, wondering; he can see the argument either way - for going after James, or leaving him be. He just - isn't sure which James would prefer, just now. He doesn't want to interfere, but the alternative - what James might think, in the face of John's inaction - he doesn't particularly want that, either. 

He's still sitting there, though, when he hears the door open, then slam shut. James' footsteps in the hall. He's silent as he comes into the room, lays another armload of wood beside the first. "You all right?" John says. 

James snorts, but doesn't answer further; John wishes he could say he's surprised. He watches James shed his coat, his hat, the snow-crusted scarf around his neck; the fire is burning perfectly well, but James comes over to fuss with it anyway, kneeling to nudge it a few inches to one side. His fingers are red from the cold where they're wrapped around the poker, and John takes a slow breath. "If you're upset with me - " 

"I'm not," James says, with a tone that says he very much is, and John sighs. 

"Look, I told you I'd handle it, all right? If I have to strand them on some fucking island to please you, I will, but it's not worth - " 

"Don't try to tell me what is and isn't worth my attention," James says, sharp. He stands, sets the poker back in the rack - perhaps with a bit more force than necessary, but John doesn't comment. "You're not the one who's - " 

"What," John says, "Wanted? In danger? I hate to remind you, but I most certainly am. I understand you're upset right now, but I think even you can admit any danger you might be in is far outweighed by the danger I face, just by - " 

"You're the one who chooses to go back there," James says. "You walk into the mouth of it, willingly, and you expect - what, that I won't have concerns that something might follow you back out?" 

"Is that what this is?" John gets himself to his feet, follows James across the room; he's stood with both hands on the solid wooden table, and John wants to reach for him, wants to touch him, but he doesn't - not just yet. He can see the tension humming through James' shoulders, and though his gut twists unpleasantly at the thought, he's - not entirely certain what James might do. "Christ. James, I told you, they're just a couple of drunks, they shouldn't have been off the ship in the first place, Billy's probably been telling them some ridiculous story. I promise, nobody's got any idea that you're here." 

"Except perhaps Governor Rogers." 

John blinks. "Are you serious?" he says. "James, he - he wasn't after you, he was after me. As far as he knows, we sailed to England, or Spain, or fucking France, he doesn't - " John cuts himself off, takes a breath; he does reach out, then, rests his hand tentatively on James' shoulder, and he hates to admit it but he's not even surprised when James shrugs him off. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have told you that. I'm trying my best, here, will - " 

"You shouldn't have told me?" James laughs. There's no humor in it. "Perhaps not. There certainly seem to be plenty of other things you don't tell me, why should I think you'd see fit to inform me we're about to be captured by the fucking Crown?" 

"We're not - Jesus. James. Will you stop?" He doesn't let James shake him off, this time - holds tight to his shoulder, forces the contact, steps forward until he's pressed against him, his back to James' chest - tries to ignore the trembling of his muscles, his singular and only half-serious attempt to pull away. "I love you," he says, softer, leaning in to rest his forehead against the back of James' neck. "I would never let anyone hurt you. I would never do anything that might put you in danger. Don't you trust me?" James takes a ragged breath, arches back into the press of John's body - unconsciously, John is sure, but still. "James, please - " 

"I want to," James says, his voice tight and thin. "I want to, but - " 

"But what?" 

"But you're not here." Barely a whisper, now, and John closes his eyes, fights hard against the choking tightness in his throat, against the bare, simple honesty. "How can I, when you're not here?" 

"I am, though," John says. "I'm here, now. I'm with you. If you'll let me be." 

"I'm trying." 

"Look at me, will you?" he says, and James turns; slowly, but he turns in John's arms, meets John's gaze. "I'm trying, too. I'm sorry. I don't know what else I can do." 

Another breath, and then - "You could stay." 

John sighs. "Is that what you want?" he says. "You want me to walk away?" James doesn't answer, and John bites his own lip, brings one hand up to James' cheek. "God, James, I don't - it would be giving up, wouldn't it?" James looks away, but John pulls him back - ducks closer, puts himself in the line of James' gaze. "I feel like I'd be giving up on you. On what you wanted. You never wanted to admit they'd won. That they were right about you, and I - I can't fucking stand that, James. I can't." 

"But if I asked." 

"Yes," John says. He hangs, for a moment, off that edge - unsure what James will say. He'd always thought that particular sacrifice intolerable, one that neither of them were willing to make. He'd been so sure. But perhaps - perhaps he'd just been wrong. "Are you? Asking that? Is that what you want?" 

James shuts his eyes, and John pulls him in - one hand slipping to the back of his neck, the other at his waist, leaning into him until James gives, rests his head on John's shoulder, his mouth opening wordlessly against the rise of John's neck. He doesn't say it, and John isn't relieved. He _isn't._ "I want you," James breathes, more felt than heard. "I just want you." 

"I'm here," John says, "darling, I'm here," and James kisses him - lips against the side of John's neck, the underside of his jaw, meeting his mouth, finally, and John winds his fingers into the short wispy hairs at the back of James' head, holds him close, keeps him there. "I'm here," he whispers, lets James shiver and gasp and press tighter against him, his hands at John's waist, tugging at the hem of his shirt. 

"Please," he says, and John says, _yes_ \- kisses him again, firm and solid and long, until James moans into his mouth, goes soft and pliant under his hands, lets John turn him, walk him backward toward the hall that leads to their bed. James sits first, his hands on John's hips, sliding upward, his eyes dragging up John's body, and John holds his breath - "I want you to take me," he says, and John smiles, strokes his hair, doesn't ask if that's truly what he wants, or just a substitute. It's close enough. It'll have to be. 

"Get your clothes off," he says, and James leans back, reaching for the edge of his own shirt. John takes the opportunity to sit, pulling away just long enough to remove his shirt, his trousers, the boot - his hands shaking, struggling with the straps, with the separation - but he manages, gets it off, turns back toward James, naked and waiting for him. "God, look at you," he says, "come here," and James does - rolls to his side, slotting their bodies together, a knee slipped between John's thighs, his cock hard and heavy in the hollow of John's hip, sliding alongside John's own. John kisses him, strokes a hand down his side, pulls him in gently, lets James rut against him - stops him, though, cants his hips back before James can get any real purchase, kisses him again by way of apology. He doesn't want this to end too soon. He wants this to last. 

There's oil on the table by the bedside, and John reaches behind himself, fumbles blindly until his fingers close around the squat round container. It's been years since they've fucked like this - not since James was still Flint, not since things were easier, simpler - and he'd never imagined that, that he might look back on that time when things were still new and uncertain between them, might long for that over this - but. He slicks his fingers, tugs until James is laid half on top of him, spread across the rise of John's thigh. "Easy," he whispers, and James moans into the hollow of his throat, pushes back against the gentle brush of his hand. "Let me go slow." 

"Don't," James says, and John sighs, kisses his shoulder, works a finger into him - and fuck, he's so _tight_ , John's afraid he's going to hurt him with even this much, but by the way James shudders and whimpers and melts against him - perhaps he shouldn't be. 

"Good?" he murmurs, and James nods against his shoulder, half frantic - John pushes deeper, pulls back, adds a second finger to the first, breaches James' body as gently as he can. "So good for me, sweetheart," he says, as James gasps and arches against him. "God, you feel so fucking good." He's hot inside, slick from the oil, and John spreads his fingers slowly, easing him open, trying to give him time to adjust - but James is having none of it, bites at the ridge of John's collarbone, his tongue smoothing away the sting his teeth leave behind, until John gives him a third finger, presses deep and hard into him. 

"Please," James says, mouths a wet line up John's throat, finds his lips - "Fuck, John please, I'm ready, just - " 

"How?" John gasps, letting his fingers slip free - it's getting more and more difficult to ignore his own hardness, his cock thick and heavy and weeping against his belly, but Christ - he feels like if he even thinks about it he'll come before they have a chance to get anywhere. "How do you want me?" 

James pulls away, rolls onto his back, and - all right, John thinks. It's not the easiest, but he'll manage - he'd rather manage, bear the momentary pain, than deny James anything, just now. He reaches again for the oil, opens the vial with trembling fingers, somehow slicks his own cock without coming or spilling the oil all over the goddamn bed, replaces the cap and sets it aside. He can balance, his weight on his good knee, James' legs spread around him, his hips half in John's lap - he can do this. For James, he can do this. 

He can't hold back a gasp of his own, as he finds his way inside - his cock sliding slick and easy and smooth into James' body, James' hands scrabbling up his arms, hooking around the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. "Fuck," he whispers against James' mouth, feels James nod, one leg wrapping around John's waist, trying to get him closer. "Oh, fuck, James." 

"More," James says, "please," and John groans, lets himself push forward - bottoms out, his hips nestled up against the solid curve of James' ass, cock buried inside him, leans to kiss his mouth, teeth dragging at James' bottom lip. 

"Yeah?" he says - pulls back, just a bit, just enough that he can thrust forward again, kissing away James' breathy moan. "That what you want, darling? You want my cock?" 

"Please," James says, and John smiles against his mouth, kisses his lips, his cheek, the paper-thin skin beneath his ear. "God, John. John." 

"Shh." John lets himself slip almost free, just the head of his cock still inside James, thrusts into him again, harder - James throws his head back, arches to meet him, working himself back onto John's cock. "So tight for me, love. So good. God, you're fucking made for this, aren't you? You need this." 

"Need you," James half whimpers, "John, fuck, I need you, please - " 

"I'm here," he says, somehow, manages to force the words out around the bright screaming heat in his head, around his cock, the unbearably perfect grip of James' body. "I'm here, James. I'm all yours. All for you." He gives to the clutch of James' hands, buries his face against James' chest, fucks into him hard and fast, like he knows he wants - needs - like they both need, the hot slide of their bodies an affirmation, a benediction. Quiet, now, both of them beyond words, past anything but a sharp intake of breath, a moan into sweat-damp skin, the soft and mindless sounds of their coupling. James comes first, his cock untouched save for the friction of their bodies - the arch of his back, the clawing grasp of his hand on John's neck announcing it before his body clenches tight around John, before John feels the wet spread of his come slick between them - and Christ, he can't last long after that, drives himself hard into James, holds, muscles in his arms and thighs trembling as he spills deep and hot and long inside him. 

He stays close, after, perhaps longer than he should - he can't bear to pull away, doesn't want to give up James' hold on him, the grip of his body, the warm expanse of his skin. His leg, though - eventually he's got to move, the ache in his stump becoming too much to bear, and he eases himself back, lets himself slip out of James, tries to ignore James' soft, almost disappointed moan. 

"Come here," he whispers, still half breathless, laying back against the pillows, and James curls easily into his arms - his head on John's chest, one hand at his waist as John fumbles for the blanket, pulls it up around James' shoulders. He presses a kiss into James' hair, draws him closer as James nuzzles against his side. "You okay?" 

"Mm." He feels James kiss his chest, thumb stroking lazily at the hollow of John's hip. "Fine." 

"All right." He's not sure he believes that, honestly, but at the moment, he also isn't sure he can bring himself to care. He's warm and comfortable and suddenly exhausted, his mind hazy and relaxed in a way he can't remember it having been in months, and it'll do - it'll do for now. 

*

"You've got to get going," James says, later.

"What," John says, "now?" He doesn't - it's been a nice day, save their misadventure this morning. They'd spent it mostly in bed, reading, napping; James had risen, finally, to feed the fire and retrieve more wood, and John had only just found his way out to the main room, chasing vague thoughts of finding something for both of them to eat. And James wants him to leave? 

"There's a storm coming," James says. "A large one, by the looks of it. If you're not clear of the harbor before it hits, you may find yourself stuck here quite a bit longer than I assume you've planned." He smiles, but even across the room, John can tell it's forced. "Not that I'd mind, of course, but your men might." 

"We're supposed to meet Teach by the end of next week," John says, hoping James will say it might be enough time, that he could even wait until morning, that - 

"You'll miss it," James says, instead, and John sighs. 

"Shit."

"I'll get your horse ready," James says, and he's back out the door before John has a chance to reply. A glance toward the nearest window confirms it, though - the daylight's fading much faster than it should. _Fuck._

He hadn't brought much with him; a change of clothes, still in the satchel he'd brought them in. A book they hadn't had a chance to start - he leaves that on the table by the bed. Perhaps James will enjoy it anyway. It's not long before he makes it outside, but when he does, he can't miss the clouds gathering thick and dark on the horizon, already starting to spill over the mountains in the distance. He follows the trail of their footprints in the snow down the back steps, toward the little barn; pauses for a moment, frowning at where the trail splits, the path they'd cut to the house earlier, and a second one headed down the hill, through the meadow. "When did you go down to the creek?" he asks, when James emerges with his horse. 

"I didn't," James says, but looks where John points; "ah," he says. "That'll be the wolves, most likely. Don't usually see them this close to town for a few months yet, but perhaps the snows hit early up in the hills this year." 

"Jesus," John says, trying not to think of bared teeth, rough fur, the low hunting calls of a pack. "You sure you don't want to come with me? No wolves in the Bahamas." 

"You've got the British navy, though. Think I'll take my chances with the wolves," James says. He's holding the horse steady for John to mount, but John ignores that, wraps his arms around James insistently - it takes a moment, but James folds into him, his head dropping to John's shoulder, his free hand coming to rest low on John's back. "Be careful," he says, his voice muffled in the collar of John's coat. 

"I will. I promise." John kisses his cheek, the corner of his eye, nudges until James pulls back enough to let John kiss him proper, soft and solid and long, as long as he can manage. "I'll send word when I can," he says, soft, when they finally part; James nods, but looks away, and John sighs, kisses his forehead, pulls him into another long hug. "I love you, James. Don't you ever forget that. I love you so fucking much." 

James smiles; it's small, a bit wobbly, but genuine. "And I you," he says, and John huffs out a laugh, presses another quick kiss to his mouth. 

"I'll be home soon," he says. "As soon as I can." 

"I'll leave a lamp lit for you." James says, and John smiles back at him, kisses him one last time before he makes himself let go, reaches to haul himself into the horse's saddle. 

James follows him around the side of the house, waves him on from the front porch; "Get going," he calls, and John nods, urges the horse into a brisk trot down the tree-lined lane toward the gate. He stops, though, at the top of the rise that in a moment will shield the house from view; he can still see the warm glow from the windows, and on the porch, the small black shape that is James, right where he'd left him. He's not sure James will be able to see it - he's in shadow here, probably invisible in the darkness pooling beneath the trees, but he raises his hand to wave anyway before he turns the horse and goes.


	4. all the rooms of the castle except this one

Five days, John thinks, hauling himself into the horse's saddle, spurring them both quickly out of Anderton's yard and toward the road.

Five days. Six unbearable nights spent within striking distance of the harbor, and unable to reach it. The storm had come up quickly, winds driving them further and further offshore in spite of his own and his poor crew's best efforts. The grousing and complaining had begun on the second morning; most of the crew seemed to agree that John had surely gone mad, to put them through a storm like this, in a place so far removed from Nassau and all the goals he'd driven them toward. John isn't sure he could even argue with them. He certainly feels half mad, even now, with every blunted set of hoofbeats carrying him finally, finally home. Christ, he thinks, he cannot wait to see James. To hold him again - to wrap himself in James' arms, in the warmth he'd so sorely missed these past nights, shivering helplessly in his cabin. To forget, even for a moment, the one fact that continues to haunt him, day in and day out - that this has never gotten any easier, no matter how much he might pray for it to. 

But he can, now. He can set it aside, he can force it to let him go. Soon. He's almost home. 

He tries to stand in the stirrups as he comes to the top of the hill, straining for the first glimpse of the house, shrouded in fresh snow; the horse's movements and his own unsteadiness force him back down again, but the house reveals itself to him a moment later, the windows darkened, the small barn beside it still and quiet. James must be in bed still, John thinks, and smiles - he can't blame him, choosing to stay tucked in, on a morning like this. Perhaps he's even still asleep - perhaps John can join him, slip in beside him before James realizes he's there. Perhaps his arrival can be a pleasant surprise, for once, rather than just one long overdue. 

John struggles for a moment with the wide double doors on the front of the barn; usually he'd use the smaller door that opens into the garden, but with as high as the snow has drifted on this side of the building, that door might well be impassable. He manages to unbar them easily enough, removing the long board that keeps them secured, and with a bit of shoving, makes just enough of a gap to get himself and his horse through. He strips her tack as quickly as he can, sets the saddle on the empty rack next to the one that holds James', removes her bridle before shutting her into the unoccupied stall. He tosses her an armload of hay from the stack in the corner; "You've eaten," he tells James' mare when she whinnies, but a cursory glance into her stall finds her manger empty, devoid of the scattering she tends to save for her mid-morning snack. Odd, he thinks, getting another armload of hay, for James not to have risen and fed her yet - but perhaps he's overslept, doesn't even realize the hour. It has, John reasons, been more overcast than usual, this morning. "You girls keep warm," he says, and leaves them to it, forcing the door closed again behind him.

The few steps between the barn and the house's front door, usually the easiest part of the journey, today prove to be the hardest; he tries to stay in his horse's tracks, stumbles on the rutted ground beneath the snow, only just manages to catch himself. He's breathing hard as he finally gets a hand on the railing, half drags himself up the steps to the porch, reaches at last for the door - and finds it already standing open. 

For a moment, John just - stands there; blinking, almost unseeing, at the space where the weathered wood door and the brass knob adorning it should be. Had James seen him coming? Why would he open the door for John, but not wait there to greet him?

"James?" he calls, stepping inside, squinting against the darkness; but no answer comes. The house is silent, still in a way he's never known it, not even on the odd morning where he would rise first, leaving James tucked away in their bed. There's no fire in the hearth, no warmth held in the wide flagstones on the floor - it must have gone out hours ago. It isn't like James, John can't help thinking, even as he feels something within himself fighting it, trying to keep him from acknowledging it. To let the fire go out. To leave his mare without her breakfast. It isn't like him at all. Perhaps he's ill, John thinks; perhaps he's injured himself in some way, perhaps he's - 

But he turns, then, his eyes finally adjusted to the dim light, permitting him to see into the depths of the room, and he can't ignore it - James isn't ill. He isn't in bed with some injury. This, John is suddenly and terrifyingly certain, is something else entirely.

The room - cluttered, but always, always orderly - is in chaos. Chairs upended, one in pieces on the floor. The long table, too heavy for either of them to move it on their own, shoved feet away from where it should be. The glass around the lantern shattered, shards glittering in the dim light through the window. 

Blood, when John looks for it, when he realizes he should look for it - on the edge of the table, on the whitewashed wall, a trail leading down the hall, on the floor. 

No, he thinks, and feels the cold wrap around him, settle into him, crawling inside his coat, growing in his chest. _James._ No. 

He knows where he'll find James, he's certain now; and fuck, _fuck_ , he doesn't _want_ to, but he can't stop himself - can't fight against whatever it is that carries him down the hall, the thing that leads him along the trail, to their room. He stops at the closed door, rests his head for a moment against the unforgiving boards, and he - doesn't understand, he will never understand, but he cannot stop himself from trying. From wishing he could. He'd thought they were past this - that they'd dealt with this, quashed this impulse, quieted the voice in James that told him to let go, that told him this wasn't worth it, that he wasn't worth it - he'd thought they'd handled this years ago. He'd thought they'd agreed. He'd thought James had believed him - believed that John had loved him, believed that John would return to him, he'd thought James had known, if he'd only _known_ \- 

He has to know. He doesn't want to. But he has to know. John takes a breath, and forces himself to open the door. 

The bedroom is empty. Their bed pristine, untouched. Made up neatly, as though James had risen moments before, pulled the covers up over the pillows and gone about his day. 

John doesn't know what to think. What to feel. He feels - nothing, and everything, all at once - his head spins, and he clutches hard at the wall, the edge of the door, anything that might support him, might lend him some flash of understanding. Where the fuck is he? What had _happened?_

If he's not here, John thinks. If he's not here, he must be - somewhere else. 

"James," he says - low and breathless, at first, then louder, spinning away from the empty bedroom, back to the front of the house, just to confirm he's not there, either - "James!" No tracks in the snow outside beside his own, no sign of him at all, and he's not sure he's even breathing, his heart racing, climbing in his throat as he stumbles back inside, lurches down the hall, toward the door that leads to the garden, forces it open. "James - " 

And then he isn't breathing - then he's being slammed back against the cold stone beside the door, the too familiar bite of steel at his throat, the hot, angry weight of a body pressed against his own - _James._

Or, he cannot help thinking, a flashing thought in his mind of the wrecks at night, the same crawling terror, the same harsh breath in his face - Captain Flint. 

"Come to see for yourself, have you?" Flint hisses - and oh, John can't even bring himself to call him James, to think of him as James, the same man he'd slept with, whom he'd held, who kissed him so gently, with so much love. Perhaps once they'd been the same person, lived inside the same man, but now - the difference couldn't be more apparent, more striking. More frightening. It had never scared him, before - but that had been before. "I knew you'd want to see it, John. To look upon what you'd done." He bares his teeth, shows John that half-forgotten grimace he used to be able to pass off as a smile, before John knew what his smile truly looked like. "I'm sorry, but this isn't going to go quite as easily as you might have hoped." 

John swallows, reflexive, feels his skin beginning to split beneath the blade. "What are you talking about?" he whispers, fighting to keep himself calm, to keep himself from fighting back - "What the hell do you think I've done?" 

"You betrayed me," Flint says. He shoves John back harder, until John can't help a gasp, the rough stone wall grinding into his back. "You led them here. To me. To our fucking home. You thought you'd succeeded, didn't you? Slain the monster. The king victorious."

"I didn't," John says - and he knows it's going to happen, knows Flint will snarl at him and shove him back harder, using his weight to keep John pinned and helpless - but he can't, he can't let that go, his stomach twisting hard and hateful at just the thought. How could he think that? How could that be possible? After all that had passed between them - how could he, even for a second, believe that to be true? "I didn't," he says again, like it'll make Flint understand - searching for him, holding his gaze, like he might find the man he loves there, trapped somewhere inside those eyes. 

"Someone fucking did," Flint says. "And you're the only one who knows where to find me. You're the only one." 

"Do you really believe that?" John says - and he shouldn't, Christ, he'd thought by now he'd known better than this, than trying to argue with a man clearly gone mad, a man who currently held a knife to his throat - but in Flint's eyes he sees the first flash of uncertainty, the first flash of _James_ , and - perhaps, he thinks. Perhaps he knows better than he'd thought. "Do you really think I would do that? I've done everything I can to protect you. I've lied for you. I've told so many fucking stories that half the time even I can't keep track of what's the truth - " 

"The truth?" Flint says, and laughs - and John's stomach turns again at that, that sharp unpleasant sound, a sound he hasn't heard in years. Had, on some level, hoped he would never have to hear again. "The truth is there's a dead British regular in my fucking garden," and John follows the unconscious cut of his eyes, glances over his shoulder, the spotted trail of blood ending in a wide gash of disturbed snow, the garish red coat wrapped around a corpse he surely would have seen, if he'd come a few steps further around the barn's corner. It hits him, then, and hard - he can see what Flint sees, the picture emerging like he's found his focus through the spyglass, a vague blur on the horizon taking shape - the governor's ships, his idiot crew, footprints in the snow. He'd thought - he'd been sure he'd been careful. He'd never even considered that perhaps he hadn't been careful enough. That he could have been _wrong_. 

"The truth is," Flint is saying, "you tried to have me killed. While I slept. In the bed we shared. Where we fucked. Where you tried to make me believe you loved me, where - " 

"I do love you," John says, firm, and Flint shoves at him again, knocks him off balance - he cries out, his leg buckling painfully under him - and it's unconscious, it must not be purposeful, but Flint catches him, the arm pressed across his chest dropping to clutch at his belt, pulling him back up. "I do love you," he says again, and if his voice wobbles, it's entirely from the pain. "More than anything or anyone on this earth. I've killed for you. I would die for you. Before I let anyone hurt you." He forces himself to breathe - and perhaps the knife isn't quite as steady anymore at his throat, perhaps he's imagining it, perhaps this will be the final straw and Flint will kill him for it, but - "And I think you fucking well know that." 

"Then explain it," Flint says, and John can't tell if it's a challenge, or a plea. He can't even attempt a guess.

"I can't," he says. "God, I - James. I wish I fucking could. I wish I could make this all make sense for you, but I can't." He takes another breath, careful - feels the knife move with him, rise and fall with the motion of his throat, instead of cutting deeper into his skin. "I don't know anything about this, I swear to you."

Flint is silent. He doesn't agree - but he doesn't disagree, either, and John remembers the steps that led into the hold of the Spanish warship, the cage in Madi's village, the glint of firelight off Flint's rings. "Then what am I supposed to think?" he says, after a moment - and he's there, John knows he is, James is there - he can hear him, almost. Just barely. If he can only push a bit harder. "What am I to do?" 

"You have to leave," John says - and even as he's saying it he's not sure he's right, but Flint blinks, hard, confusion finally starting to crowd out the rage on his face. "Now. Right now. And if you have to go alone, if I never see you again, I - I understand. But you're - James, if they know where you are, and clearly someone does, you're not safe here anymore." It's a risk - he's still half sure Flint might slit his throat for it, but he brings a hand up to cup Flint's jaw, strokes his thumb along the jumping muscle in Flint's cheek. "You're not safe, darling. And that is more important to me than my happiness. That's more important to me than anything." 

Flint swallows. Looks away, then back. "Where do I go?" 

"Wherever you want," John says. "Wherever you can. Just - away from here." Flint takes a breath of his own. Closes his eyes - opens them, again, but not as Flint. 

_James,_ John thinks. 

The knife falls from his throat - further, dropping with a muffled thump into the snow, forgotten. James folds against him. His head on John's shoulder, the hand at John's waist pulling him closer, now, rather than pushing to keep him still. "Okay," John whispers - closes his own eyes against the rushing in his head, the frantic pounding of his heart, or James', or both - loud and hard enough that he's not sure how he hadn't noticed it before now. "Oh, God. James."

"I'm sorry," James says - his voice wet and choked and desperate, like he's just realized what he's done, like he's been somewhere outside himself this whole time - and fuck, John thinks, he won't be surprised if James tells him later that's exactly the case. "Fuck, John, I'm sorry, are you - "

"I'm fine," John murmurs, presses a kiss into James' hair, wrapping his arms around James' shoulders, holding him tight and close. "It's all right. You're all right. God, you must be so fucking scared." 

"Will you come with me?" James says, against John's throat, and John doesn't think - doesn't consider, doesn't weigh the options, just hears him, and decides.

Fuck the war. Fuck the ship. The men. Nassau. He'll walk. Away - but also toward. 

"Yes," he says. "Of course I will. Yes."


	5. dear forgiveness, -

They don't take much; there isn't much to take. John has the satchel he'd brought with him from the ship, swollen with what little food he'd been able to gather on a pass through James' kitchen. James has a satchel of his own - clothes, a few books, some tools. They have the horses. 

(John had hesitated, delayed in taking his saddle as James passed it to him in the barn. James had laughed - low, quick, humorless. "You've practically bought the fucking thing twice over, at the rates he charges you," he'd said, and John had half wanted to protest - Mister Anderton had always seemed a fair, though admittedly shrewd, businessman, who to John's knowledge had never done anything but right by either of them - but then he'd thought of the blade at his throat, the bitter realization that in spite of the armies he commanded, the position he'd certainly earned, his knowledge could still be lacking. He'd taken the saddle, and the horse as well, and hadn't let himself feel guilty for either of them.) 

And - they have each other. He has the firm line of James' shoulders in front of him, the dark shape he makes perched atop his horse. John follows, silent and unquestioning, lets James go first, lets him cut the path away from the house, in the opposite direction from town, toward the mountains. John glances over his shoulder, just once, as they crest the first of the foothills - the house is shuttered and still, just as he'd found it. Just as his men will find it, when they eventually come looking, and he's trying not to think of that, of his crew, of the Walrus, but. 

He'd left the captain's log on the heavy table; he'd intended to spend some time working on it while he was with James, fill in the details of their last raid that he simply hadn't found the time to record yet. But it didn't matter now. Perhaps DeGroot will finish it off, though he would prefer Billy, but - whoever. It's not his business any more. It's not his decision. 

He's expecting the pang in his chest that comes along with that particular thought - though perhaps he isn't expecting it to come quite as strongly as it does. 

"Come on," James says, though - his voice fainter than John likes it, and when he turns, he finds James has pulled ahead of him, twisted around in his saddle to look back. "We've got to hurry if we're to make the next village by nightfall." 

"Coming," John says, and spurs his horse onward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been fun, guys. thank you for a great experience ♥

**Author's Note:**

> [jackie](http://twobrokenwyngs.tumblr.com/) makes these things happen, not me
> 
> this time i cannibalized [Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/48158). _dont change horses in mid-stream._


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